The Coming of Darkness
by uber grasshopper
Summary: In the aftermath of the war, the wizarding world rejoices, yet a shadow of guilt, betrayal and animosity darkens the halls of Hogwarts. Two people in a marriage on the brink of collapse reflects on a son they never had. ADMM - you've been warned
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I like the plot - so it's mine. Paws off =9 However, same song goes as almost always: Everything you recognize belongs to Rowlings in one way or another.  
  
AN: Big thankums and luff to the great Freelancer for encouraging me to post this and to the great Jestana for nagging me to get this one posted =9 luff yaz! K - heeeere we go:  
  
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The Coming of Darkness  
  
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"Excuse me, Madame Pomfrey," a deep voice interrupted the medi- witch's conversation. Turning in her seat, she met a pair of sparkling blue eyes and grinned.  
  
"Has your adoring public tired of you already?" she teased, relishing the ability to do so. The last few years had been nothing short of a nightmare, and now, it was finally over. Albus Dumbledore again emerged as a hero of the side of Light, but the champion was a young man just barely out of Hogwarts with brilliant green eyes.  
  
"If they're not they should be," he replied evenly, but with a steady twinkle in his old eyes. "I was wondering if I could steal one of your lovely dinner companions for the next dance," he explained, his eyes flicking briefly towards the woman stubbornly ignoring him on Poppy's other side.  
  
"Well, that depends," she told him seriously, trying to keep the corners of her mouth from twitching downward, "Which one would you like?"  
  
Giving a small nod in acknowledgement of the warning, he stepped past Poppy's chair and focused on the bowed head of dark brown hair. Tiny threads of gold intertwined with natural strands of silver and accented the braided crown her hair. "Minerva, I need to speak with you," he said.  
  
"I have nothing to say to you," she replied crisply.  
  
He sighed inwardly, then quietly asked, "May I at least have a dance with my wife?"  
  
She turned to stare at him then, and her icy opaque eyes bore met his pleading blue. Biting the inside of her cheek hard in order to bully her tears into submission. "Fine," she whispered after a moment, and gingerly placed her hand in his.  
  
He lead her out to the dance floor in silence, trying to rehearse what he wanted to say to her, but even as he took her into his arms, all thoughts fled from his mind. It had been too long since he held her properly like this. Too long since she had willingly touched him - that is to say, too long since she had _gently_ touched him; just last week she had knocked his jaw out of line. Shaking his head, he tried to focus on something else, something calming, but nothing immediately came to mind. Instead, he cleared his mind and concentrated on the moment, just like he used to do every time they had been together, before. . .  
  
Her scent was intoxicating, as always, a strange mix of peppermint, chocolate, and cool, spring water. His hand rested lightly on the side of her slim waist. He wanted so much to draw her close and wrap his arms around her, but he could only silently wish the foot and a half between them to shrink to nothing. Holding her hand as gently as he could, he led her through a graceful waltz, still in silence. She refused to meet his gaze and resolutely stared over his shoulder, ignoring the small circles he rubbed with his thumb on her side.  
  
Even so, she didn't let her hand fall from his shoulder when the song ended, and he took heart in the fact. Slowly, but steadily, he closed the gap between them so that by the end of the second song, he leaned down slightly to breath in her ear, "Minerva, love, just please hear me out."  
  
The pleading note in his voice did not go unnoticed. Meeting his eyes briefly, she nodded and stepped away, leading him out to the empty courtyard.  
  
It was a cool evening, the beginning of November - seventeen years after the first fall of the Dark Lord Voldemort. The two professors stood mutely in the soft moonlight, Minerva in a stony silence staring out into the night. They hadn't been on speaking terms since June, since Severus. . .  
  
AN: I know it's short, but it's just a prologue =9 Plz R&R and let me know if anybody wants to see any more =) 


	2. First Encounter

**First Encounter**

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            "Umm – excuse me, Professor?"

            Turning her head slightly, the elegant witch raised an eyebrow at Hogwart's newly appointed head girl.

            "There's been a… well, an incident on the train," the young woman answered her teacher's silent question, "I've left them in the nearest office with Madam Pomfrey."

            As her eyes narrowed, Minerva immediately began going through the list of possible troublemakers. Her dark, bottle green robes trimmed in gold whispered as she turned fully and marched up the stairs to the main foyer.

            "Miss Lowell, find Professor Flitwick and ask him to see to the first years please," she commanded. As the head girl rushed towards the Great Hall to carry out her order, Minerva fumed, muttering to herself, "I swear those fifth years can't be trusted to _anything_ - I've never seen such an unruly bunch of students – not even _my_ class…"

            And so it was with a thoroughly aggravated air that she burst through the double doors and took a deep breath before launching into a tirade.

            "Not one full day into the new school year and yet you insist on creating havoc! Are you _trying_ to put your house in negative points?!" She railed at the pair whose backs were to her. "Fifty points from –," she cut herself off abruptly as the smaller of the pair cautiously turned a black-mopped hair to her. Barely able to keep her mouth from dropping open in shock, Minerva glanced at Poppy, who confirmed her incredulity with a small nod and a frown. Eyes blazing, she turned her attention back to the pair before her and appraised them silently.

            One boy, the one who had glanced her way first, sported a fading (thanks to Madame Pomfrey) black eye and a slightly swollen lip. Minerva could only guess what sort of state he'd been in before Poppy saw to him. In all, the witch was unimpressed. He was a scrawny thing – with the look of a gothic scarecrow. The lank hair and pale complexion did nothing to distill this image, but it was his eyes that caught and held Minerva. Intense eyes black as night stared at her, a haughty look belied by a trace of trepidation and no small amount of fear. As she held his gaze, she saw his resolve wither slowly, and, her intention fulfilled, she turned her attention to the other boy.

            He was a picture of childhood innocence. Bright hazel eyes and a ready grin set in a glowing face capped by messy black hair she knew all too well.

            "Mr. Potter," she addressed her colleague's son icily. Her words nearly frosted the air and she saw a faint flicker of triumph in the other boy's eyes. Ignoring this, she instead concentrated on the charming grin that lost its confidence at her tone. As the sides of the boy's mouth wavered, she plowed on, "Would you care to explain what exactly happened here?" Her tone dared him to answer with a jovial "Not at all, professor!" as he was prone to do with his father.

            Instead, he gave a meek nod and immediately took the defensive, "Me and another boy, Peter, I think his name was, were looking for someplace to sit and _he_," Potter intoned viciously with a glare at the other boy, "had an entire compartment to himself. We asked him to leave and _eventually_ he did, but not before knocking into Peter and eyeballing me."

            The other boy glared furiously at his feet, both of which hung a good two inches from the ground. Minerva could see him blink angry tears out of his eyes as Potter finished his tale.

            ". . . and then Ellen, the Head Girl, that is, came and had us sit in separate corners until we got here. So you see, Professor, I was only protecting Peter. He provoked me," he finished, infusing such a sense of triumph into his last three words that she nearly lost her restraint to smack the cocky grin off of his face.

            "And would Miss Lowell be able to vouch for your part of the story?" she questioned skeptically.

            "I suppose she would be able to – I _am_ in the right after a-."

            "She wasn't even there until later! How could she know who started it?" the smaller boy, stonily silent throughout the exchange, heatedly looked up and voiced a valid point. "You're a bloody liar anyway," he muttered.

            "That is quite enough," Minerva snapped, and marked the faint flush of the boy's cheeks. "Now," she began anew, giving each boy a stern look and then turning to the smaller of the two, "What is your name?"

            "Severus Snape, m'am," the boy replied.

            "Well, Mr. Snape, you and Mr. Potter should be quite proud. You are the first students I know of who have received two weeks of detention before the school year even starts."

            "But Professor!" Potter tried to protest.

            "You should be very happy I don't take fifty points apiece from your as of yet unknown houses," she stated testily, "The two of you will report to me tomorrow at six o'clock in the morning in the main hall." Ignoring the look of disbelief on the Potter boy's face, she continued brusquely, "Now follow me – you'll be Sorted in the Great Hall."

            With the boys following behind, Minerva swept through the corridors and into the Great Hall, where Professor Flitwick had just completed the Sorting. He caught sight of Minerva just before gathering the stool and Hat, and returned both to their places. One glance at Minerva's face sent him scurrying out of the way to his seat at the head table.

            "Wait here," she ordered crisply. Taking her place beside the school, she announced,

"Potter, James."

As the boy came forward, she tried not to glare and placed the Sorting Hat on his head civilly. Not more than ten seconds later the hat shouted,

            "GRYFFINDOR!"

            And she tried to ignore the swagger in his step as he made his way to the cheering Gryffindor table.

            "Snape, Severus."

            He advanced slowly, almost timidly, but did not seek any reassurance from the stately woman beside him. As the hat fell down about his eyes, Minerva saw a brief flash of fear in his eyes before the black irises disappeared behind the cloth of the aged Sorting Hat. As the seconds ticked by, she heard some of the students in the hall, in the vicinity of the Gryffindor table, titter cruelly as some laughed aloud at the sight of a scarecrow of a boy waiting to be Sorted. She saw him twitch as the sound of the derogatory laughter reached his ears. Within seconds of this, the hat made its decision and shouted,

            "SLYTHERIN!"

            A flurry of "Boo"s followed the boy in his wake as he made his way to the Slytherin table, but as Minerva cast a scathing glare at the few responsible, mouths immediately snapped shut, yet her glare couldn't cover the dull pattering of sarcastic applause throughout the hall. Returning to her place at the head table, she quickly glanced at the newest edition to Slytherin.

            "Welcome," the headmaster announced with his customary twinkle, "to another year at Hogwarts. . ."

            She knew she should probably listen to her husband's speech, but her mind was focused elsewhere. The boy with the severe dark eyes intrigued her. His head hung slightly, yes, but even from this distance she could see the stubborn set of his shoulders and the dark glare shadowing his young eyes.

            "Minerva," Albus said quietly into her ear, "I've been trying to get your attention for the last five minutes. What's happened?"

            Prying her eyes away from the boy, who had started on a small piece of pork, she gazed at her husband blankly. "I'm sorry?" she said sheepishly, meeting his brilliant blue eyes with her own set of intense hazel.

            "You've been staring at that poor child for a while now," he explained deliberately, as if she were a bit slow, "so what exactly happened between he and Mr. Potter? And who is he?"

            "You're lucky I know you're only teasing," she glared, riled at the headmaster's mocking tone. "And for your information, Mr. Potter and Mr. Snape were in a fight on the train on the way here. As if you didn't know that already," she bit out, viciously stabbing a defenseless baked potato.

            "Ah," he replied, shifting to a better defensive position, just in case, and continued, "I see. But that doesn't explain your. . . attentiveness."

            She sat quietly for a few moments, allowing herself time to think. Absently slicing the chicken on her plate, she tried to reason through her actions. It was not completely out of character for her to champion the underdog, she was a Gryffindor after all, and she did have a soft spot for first years, in some cases. She frowned. Yes, in some cases: in the quiet cases, in the cases of muggle-born children nervous in this new world. Never in the case of a pureblooded troublemaker who fairly screamed 'haughty loner'.

            "I don't know, Albus," she told him quietly, glancing at the boy now engaged in a hushed conversation with Rudolphus Lestrange. Frowning darkly, she turned her gaze back to her husband.

            "I honestly think he can take care of himself, Minerva," Albus tried to placate his wife. It wasn't her place to involve herself with the goings on of other Houses. This is how it started before, when Bellatrix Black was Sorted into Ravenclaw. Of course, then it had been between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw Heads of House. He could only imagine how the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin would escalate should she attempt to take one of them under her wing.

            However, he mused silently, this could be the beginning of something better. . .

            What if the house rivalry simmered down because of this? Glancing at the newest additions at the Gryffindor table, he inwardly grimaced. Two black haired children had their heads together, occasionally sending malicious glances at the Slytherin table. Perhaps not, then.

            But one can always hope.


End file.
